


The Verge of Breaking Down

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The sincerity in his voice causes something inside her to break. She hears someone speaking but the voice sounds foreign and suddenly he is so close, an almost shocked look gracing his features, and she can feel his lips against her temple and his hand in her hair and a soft, vulnerable whisper, like a verbal remedy, that enlaces her entire being. 'There's nothing wrong with you.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> I've been publishing my stories on ff.net but I know some of you prefer this site so I'm gonna start posting them here as well, bit by bit. 
> 
> This story is my take on one particular scene from the fall finale. It was originally intended as a one-shot but I will most likely add one or two more chapters. 
> 
> Enjoy and please leave a review if you get a chance!

_You should have come to me._  

His low voice echoes off the metallic walls; she feels the words resonate within her. It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? He makes it sound so easy.

She would never admit it, but she’s glad he’s here. Doesn’t care how he found her. He’s _here_ and maybe this is a chance for closure, a new chapter perhaps. She’s so tired. 

The tension is palpable. Has been for some time and she can’t stand it any longer. She feels confused and exhausted and is glad that her secret is finally out in the open, whatever consequences that entails. But it’s no longer solely her responsibility and it feels like an immeasurable weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She tries hard to keep her cool. Not let his gaze break her. 

_I didn’t need to._

No, she needed to do this on her own, even if she was aware of the avalanche of events she would initiate. The enduring threat of slipping up. The inevitability of being buried under it all. That she couldn’t hide this from him forever. That he would find out, that he could see the betrayal in her eyes. He had given her the opportunity, more than once even, to just open up, to address the issue, to take care of this problem with him by her side. But instead she kept it to herself; certain that she would be able to manage. That she would be able to contain the situation. Tom, Berlin, Fitch. Hadn’t it all been worth it in the end? 

_Elizabeth, we need to talk._

Of course he had known. He was the Concierge of Crime, after all. But he had been unable to hide his disappointment; he had addressed it openly. She had _hurt_ him and this simple fact affected her on some deep level she wouldn’t even dare to acknowledge. She hadn’t meant to disappoint him. Some part of her even thought he would be proud of her, in some strange, distorted way. Keeping Tom a prisoner, chained up on some ship, to gain intel. What a _Raymond Reddington_ thing to do. This dark, criminal side of her so alive suddenly. It had felt good, being in charge like that. A little too good, perhaps. But he himself had committed so many crimes, so many atrocities. He had no right to judge her for this. And why did he care so much anyway? 

_It wasn't worth it. Not if the cause was you here in this…filth._

She’s close to coming undone and she thinks he can sense it, too. With every word he steps closer, moves closer towards her, looks around almost dramatically. Just to emphasize that he doesn’t want her here. That she shouldn’t find herself in this environment under these circumstances. 

She’s still in control and she takes a deep breath to calm herself, to calm her nerves. Something wells up inside her, words and panic and fear, all on the tip of her tongue now, ready to be released. A step in the desired direction, towards honesty, leveling the playing field somewhat, going back to the way they were before if that was even an option right now. It's her choice to make. He’s just a spectator. Surprisingly passive. 

_I couldn't do it._

It doesn’t take an FBI profiler to interpret his expression. He doesn’t try to conceal his emotions. His brows are furrowed; his gaze intense and focused and invariably fixed on her. It seems like the words out of her mouth are physically hurting him and she can’t help the tears in her eyes. But she goes on and offers an explanation and somehow knows he’ll understand. 

And when she retreats, when silence once again settles between them, it is he who takes the initiative. Who offers wisdom.

_When you love someone you have no control. That’s what love is. Being powerless._

The sincerity in his voice causes something inside her to break. She hears someone speaking- _I don’t know what’s wrong with me_ \- but the voice sounds foreign and suddenly he is _so close,_ an almost shocked look gracing his features, and she can feel his lips against her temple and his hand in her hair and a soft, vulnerable whisper, like a verbal remedy, that enlaces her entire being. _There’s nothing wrong with you._ It all happens too quickly to process, all in the blink of an eye, but it’s everything. It’s all that matters. 

_There’s nothing wrong with you._

With his arm around her she closes her eyes. Temporary exile from the darkness she’s faced. 

* * *

He hopes she believes him. No, he needs her to believe him. Because he can’t stand to see her suffer. And she has gone through so much.

He's not sure she realizes this is as cathartic to him as it is to her. The unexpected physical closeness he has been craving for so long. The restored trust and familiarity. A connection beyond Agent Keen or Elizabeth. Just _Lizzie_. 

There’s a distance that remains between them because he is insecure. Because he is unwilling to take risks. Because she is still holding back and he is aware of that crucial fact.

Her warm breath seeps through the layers of his clothing and brushes the skin on his shoulder and he can’t help but notice the weirdly steady pattern. Characteristic of someone who is trying desperately not to lose control and he wishes she would allow herself this moment of comfort while he is here to hold her. While she is safe.

He waits, one minute, maybe two, and he wonders if he should be the one to break the spell, but it’s her racing heartbeat that makes the decision for him and he leans in, his lips barely touching her ears, and he whispers. 

„Let go.“

Still nothing. 

„Lizzie, I’m here. Let go.“

And then she does. With almost violent urgency she collapses against him and he tightens his grip around her immediately, encircling her with both arms now, his fedora dropping to the floor with a faint thud. He feels shivers running through her body, feels her hands clutch the back of his jacket despairingly, grasping for fabric and something to hold on to, _something to hold on to_ while all the lies and the deception and the pressure flow out of her with every ragged breath. "I'm sorry,“ he hears her murmur against his shoulder, and he moves his hand up to smooth her hair and tells her there's no reason to apologize. 

His eyes are still closed which makes the sensation of her proximity almost intoxicating. He has to be careful, he knows. His earlier comment on love was reckless but she needed some kind of assurance, something that would help her to make sense of the situation and he couldn’t stop himself. Deep down he hopes she understood the implications. The severity of loving someone. Just _how_ powerless love can render a person. How powerless _she_ could make _him_. Yet how strong. 

Minutes pass and her grip on him loosens and he pulls back to look at her. To see if she’s okay. But her eyes are stubbornly staring at the floor in what seems to be a gesture of embarrassment, even shame. He’s aching with her. 

"Lizzie, look at me.“ 

She thinks she must look like a madwoman, all smeared mascara and dark circles and irrationality. 

"There is _nothing_ wrong with you.“ 

It's the third time she’s heard this phrase from him tonight, but his voice is stronger now, deeper and slightly raspy and drenched in insistence. 

It covers her like an invisible blanket and his calloused hands delicately cup her face and they gaze at each other with an intensity that leaves her breathless. Something transpires between them in that very instant.  Some unspoken agreement. And she nods and he traces his thumb over her eyebrow and down her temple, the very spot where his lips had come into contact with her skin moments earlier. He smiles and presses one final kiss to her forehead before grabbing his fedora off the floor. 

„Let’s go home.“ 

It sounds like a promise. 


	2. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter, part 2 of 3. Thank you all for reading!

 

She doesn’t know which home he was referring to but it doesn’t matter. She simply can’t stand the thought of being alone tonight. It seems like he can’t bear it either.

The car ride is long and uneventful, not necessarily awkward but far from relaxed. No words are spoken, no skin is touched. They both remain on their respective side of the backseat, gazing out the window, watching the city lights go by. Trying to be sensible about what had just transpired on the ship. Trying to act as unaffected as possible even though their heads are spinning and their hearts are beating a little too fast. 

When they finally arrive at their destination- a generic upper-class mansion-  it is Red who opens her door and leads her inside with his right hand on the small of her back. It’s become a habit and habits are hard to shake off, even in precarious situations. Maybe especially then. She doesn’t seem to notice. 

They still haven’t spoken a word when Liz sinks into the soft cushions of the large leather couch in the middle of the living room and in that same moment she hears him move behind her and suddenly she feels his hand on her shoulder, the ghost of a touch, just a faint reassuring squeeze, but it’s over so quickly that she questions the reality of it all. Uncertain if it wasn’t simply a figment of her imagination. She takes off her coat. 

The house is surprisingly homely despite its size and her eyes wander from the somewhat messy bookshelves over the impressionist paintings on the wall to the crackling logs of the fireplace and she can’t help but wonder how Red’s house would look like if he weren’t forced to move every couple of days. She thinks it would probably look strikingly similar and maybe that’s why she feels this instant wave of comfort wash over her. Or maybe she really needs some rest. 

She is shaken from her musings when Red sits down next to her and places two tumblers on the small table in front of them. Whiskey. Of course. The ultimate analgesic. 

Her body shifts and she looks at him curiously. He looks different. His jacket gone, his sleeves rolled up. She remembers seeing him like this before, somewhat more casual. He was repairing a music box at the time. _Her_ music box. When she found out the truth about Tom and her life shattered into pieces. When she knocked on his door in the middle of the night and he comforted her without asking questions. When he weathered her storm. Some things don’t seem to change.

„I think we should talk,“ he says suddenly and she almost flinches. 

„What about?“ The possibilities seem endless and for some reason she is dreading his answer.

„Us.“

* * *

 

_Us._

She reaches for her glass and takes a courageous sip. She has an inkling she’s going to need it. 

„Why didn’t you come to me, Lizzie?“ His voice is deep and calm but she has a hard time interpreting its tone. It’s not so much reproachful as it is reserved. Detached even. Somehow that’s worse. She can’t look at him. 

„Because I had to do this by myself. Because it was _my_ marriage that was a sham and it was _my_ husband who was responsible for it and because I deserve answers that you won’t give me.“ The words leave her mouth before she can even filter them. She speaks the truth. The best thing she has to offer him. If he’s surprised he doesn’t show it. 

„You don’t trust me.“ It might be a statement or a question or a mere observation but it’s  not the ambiguity of his intonation that causes Liz to shiver. It’s the weight his response carries. The implications. There’s something outrageous about it. Something that causes her muscles to tense up. She inhales deeply, looks straight at him, unwavering under the intensity of his darkened eyes on her. 

„You wanna talk about trust, Red? You wanna talk about all the secrets you keep from me? You wanna talk about the guy you hired to follow me? You wanna talk about your ex-wife and preventing her from having an actual conversation with me?“

She’s hit a nerve, she can tell. His mask is well in place but the twitch under his left eye doesn’t go unnoticed. She knows him too well now. He can’t hide his nervous mannerisms from her any longer. It’s strangely empowering and she revels in it.

„I have never lied to you.“

„No, of course you haven’t. Lying would imply that you actually offer me _any_ kind of explanation or reasoning in the first place. That you involve me in your plans and tell me what’s going on. But that’s rarely the case, isn’t it?“

It’s a crucial moment and somehow they can both sense it. In some way they’ve both been waiting for this conversation. This _confrontation_. The accumulated anger and frustration of the last weeks and months mingling in the air between them. They had finally reached a breaking point. 

„I did not force you to become involved in any of this. If I remember correctly you made a choice and that choice entailed you getting into a cab and driving back to my safe house. Do you remember that, Lizzie? Do you remember my proposal to leave you alone? Do you remember your response?“ The slightest cadence of ridicule in his voice, the daring spark in his eyes is her final straw. Every cell in her body is urging her to get away from the man, from the _criminal_ sitting next to her on the couch, and she jumps up and yells at him and every word is drenched with rage.

„You did not force me to become involved? Except for that time you surrendered yourself to the FBI and demanded to only speak to _Elizabeth Keen_? Except for that one time, right Red?“ She pauses, briefly pondering how to go on. It’s too late to back down now. „I never had any choice. If I wanted answers about my life, you knew I had to stay with you. I had to choose you and a life with you in it.“ It’s painful and exhausting, this entire argument. Taking its toll on the both of them. But he still hasn’t moved from the couch and she just wants some kind of closure. Whatever he will offer her, if anything. And she feels weak and embarrassed now, having lost her temper like that, but she doesn’t regret it.

He sighs and she almost feels sorry and she’s angry at herself for being so easily manipulated. His mouth opens and she watches his lips move. Damn habits. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

„You can’t do everything by yourself, Lizzie. We all need someone to lean on from time to time.“ 

„And who would that someone be, Red?“

It’s unfair, she knows, it’s so incredibly unfair. Because an hour ago she was clinging to him. An hour ago he had his arms around her.  An hour ago he saved her. And she hates this person she has become. This disdainful version of herself. 

He looks hurt. He looks defeated. For a matter of seconds, at least. He is still Raymond Reddington. Not letting his guard down. But she knows and she feels terrible. 

He doesn’t respond because there is nothing left to say. Instead he fixes his eyes on the amber flames of the fireplace, his left hand carefully balancing his glass on the arm of the couch. 

She moves backwards and leans against the wall and for a few minutes they both remain completely silent. Processing every syllable. Looking for explanations. 

„Why do we keep hurting each other?“ It’s barely more than a whisper but as powerful as a scream. He turns his head and looks at her then, mindful of the unusual frailty in her voice. 

Downing his drink as an act of self-imposed encouragement he puts the tumbler back down, the sound of the glass hitting the wooden table like the pin drop in a deserted room, and rises from the couch. 

She stands, frozen, as if under some powerful spell, surrendering to her exhaustion. Listens to his footsteps drawing closer, one, two, until they fall silent and she is left with nothing but the sensation of his body heat caressing her skin. She breathes deeply and opens her eyes. He's staring right back at her. Takes that one final, fateful step, crossing that proverbial line, until there's no room left to escape. No way of turning back. 

„What is it you want, Lizzie?“  

_I had to choose you and a life with you in it._

„What do you want?“ 


	3. Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Here's chapter 3.

_What do you want?_

She can’t believe it. She can’t believe he’s asking her _this_ question and he’s phrasing it _this_ way and the dream, yes, the dream. She remembers it now. She had almost forgotten. How he had shot Tom and how he had stepped closer and how his eyes had wandered up her bare legs over her body and how it had felt. How it had felt when his dangerously low voice had engulfed her. Had challenged her. _Agent Keen._

He wants an answer or some type of reaction but her mind seems to have lost the ability to think straight, to make sense of it all, to profile the man across from her. And yet suddenly, without warning, all reason seems to submerge in a wave of intrepidity. There’s a storm in his eyes she can’t ignore and a response on the tip of her tongue. A wistful declaration. 

„I want to understand. I want to understand why I’m still standing here even though there’s a voice screaming inside my head telling me to leave. I want to understand why you seem to be the only person willing to comfort me despite the things I’ve said to you. I want to understand why you care so _goddamn_ much, Red. Why you’re always there. I want to understand why it felt like a loss when you let go of me on the ship. I want to understand why-"

He merely has to lean forward. That’s how close he is. The tiniest movement with the greatest ramifications. He can feel her heartbeat in his veins. 

_You might wonder at exactly what point did I become this… thing?_

When his lips meet hers she’s stunned. Spellbound. The words left unsaid melt on her tongue. Her eyes close on their own account. His stay open. He can’t stop looking at her. 

_Your safety is of great concern to me._

He’s angry at himself and this momentary loss of control. That’s why he pulls back. That’s why their closeness ceases abruptly and the questions hovering between them become unbearable. 

_Are you alright?_

„I’m sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to-", he's struggling to find an excuse or an explanation but quickly concedes. Another step away from her, regaining some ground. „I'm sorry." 

She watches him intently as he distances himself and fights the urge to reach for him. This isn’t the time for rash impulses. Still, the whiskey… It lingers and it’s intoxicating and evocative and she wishes it won’t ever fade away. The taste of Raymond Reddington branded on her lips. _How the hell did this happen?_

„Red, if this was some weird attempt to distract me-"

He huffs dismissively, his back towards her now and his gaze fixed on the fire, and she’s certain she’s offended him. Something in his low voice makes her shiver. „No Lizzie. Certainly not that. A great many things, but not that.“

„What is it then?“

He turns, slowly and cautiously. At what point the night had turned into this mess he doesn’t know but turning back is of no use now and she had closed her eyes earlier, had she not? She hadn’t tried to stop him. 

And so he narrows the gap once again and she is still leaning against the wall, confused and pleading, eyes wide open. There’s no physical contact, no touching, but they’re painfully close. Breathing has become a luxury. Liz can hardly stand the tension when Red opens his mouth.

„Honesty.“

It means nothing. It means everything. And she thinks she understands. And she reaches out to him, reaches out to this new thing between them. And her shaking fingers glide along his jaw, down his neck, over his shoulder and finally stop. Stop when she feels his heart beating nervously against her hand. And he can hide so many things and tell so many stories, but he can’t conceal this. He can’t feign this one true reaction, every pulsation a promise, a secret uncovered, an emotion revealed. 

He stands still but remains fully and utterly focused on her movements. When she whispers his name, those three colorful letters, he almost comes apart. He inhales deeply.

_„_ Do you remember what I said to you during our first meeting?“ he finally asks. His tone some kind of puzzle she can’t solve. 

She pauses and withdraws her hand because she doesn’t understand what he’s getting at. What he’s trying to say. And he simply looks at her and then his lips are near her ear and it’s the only thing she can focus on and he knows it, too. He’s trying to stay in control while she is on the verge of losing it. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, calculating each move, competing for the upper hand. He smiles against her.

„ _I think you’re very special_.“

And somehow all walls collapse. He leans back and this time her lips meet his and he deepens the kiss immediately and her body is pushed against the wall and she pulls him impossibly close and she’s virtually trembling and he’s practically coming undone and his hands are in her hair and their breaths are colliding. It’s desperate and urgent and needy. Some sort of chemical reaction they can’t define. The fusion of opposites. 

It lasts as long as they can handle without fully letting go, without overstepping that one final line, and when they break the contact they miss the sensation instantly. 

Minutes pass and they study each other’s expressions, maybe trying to find some evidence of regret but unsuccessfully so. At loss for words, unable to put a label on what just happened between them. 

It is Red who finally moves and kisses her cheek longingly before stepping away.

„I think I need another drink,“ he says calmly while grabbing his glass off the table. „And I think you should stay the night.“

 


	4. You Need Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this story. Enjoy chapter 4!

This is complicated. This is so fucking complicated and it's wrong and she should know better and why is he so calm? Why is he composed while she's having trouble breathing? And why had it felt so good? Why had it felt so real?

"Won't you sit down?" He's regarding her with open eyes from his spot on the couch and the glass in front of him is fuller than last time and Liz feels satisfaction rise up within her. So this _does_ affect him. Good.

She's taking her time, needs to regain her senses fully before she can face him at eye level, before this night can progress in whatever form. The game continues. Her move.

His scrutinizing gaze bores right through her, bores into her very core, and she feels daring and doubtful and she thinks she's been walking this fine line between desperation and exhilaration all night. And when she finally sits down next to him the gap is strikingly wide for two people who had lost all inhibitions moments earlier. For some reason she still doesn't allow herself to make any presumptions. This is all new. And what is _this_ anyway?

His right arm is stretched out along the back of the couch. He could touch her shoulder if he would shift his hand just a little. He doesn't. But he looks at her, like he always does when she's near, with warmth and affection. Studies her profile, wonders how to proceed.

"How long?" She asks him bluntly, openly. There's no reason for pretense anymore, for careful phrasing. Not tonight.

"Pardon?"

"How long have you felt like this?"

He's biding his time, that much is obvious. Because he understood her question right away but simply doesn't know how to respond. How much he is willing to reveal. If he ruins this, he'll never forgive himself.

"I don't see what difference it makes." It's an excuse of some kind but it won't be enough, he knows.

"It makes a difference to me, Red. How long have you felt like this? How long have you wanted this?" Her voice is strong, insistent. She won't concede. "Honesty, remember?"

 _Honesty_. Smart.

" _You need me_." He still remembers her dress. Her slightly didactic tone. Her choice of drink. His much better alternative.

"That's not a legitimate answer, Red. Don't try to deflect-"

"Montreal, Lizzie. If you recall, I asked you to profile me."

She does recall, and in great detail. Girlfriend from Ann Arbor. The cocktails. Tastes like spring, doesn't it.

"I…Yeah, I do." She had barely known him then. A stranger, a criminal.

"You weren't intimidated by me. Quite the contrary, really. You were determined. Resolute. But more importantly, for the most part you were right. I do need you. And it fascinated me. _You_ fascinated me. Your intelligence, your skill. Your ability to look past the impeccably tailored suit-"

"Red." She has to say something. Anything. It couldn't have been that long, could it? Her eyes are fixed on the table in front of her and she hears the ambient crackling of the fireplace and feels him move closer. And closer.

"I hope that answers your question, Lizzie." But it's more than that, really. It's not that simple. Because he doesn't know what to expect. Gauging her reaction seems like an impossible task.

"I didn't know." Which isn't true. Not completely, at least. She didn't know with certainty. She didn't know the scope. The intricacies of the situation.

But here they are. And she finally turns to look at him and he finally reaches out to touch her. Tugs a strand of hair behind her ear. Lingers and smiles when she almost imperceptibly leans into his palm.

"What happens now?" He lowers his hand instantly, as if pulled back to reality, and Liz doesn't miss the disappointment ghosting along his features and the sternness in his voice.

"That, Lizzie, is entirely your choice to make. Am I willing to forget what happened earlier? Certainly not. Am I willing to act _as if_ it never happened? Yes. Yes I would be. If you're so inclined I'll-"

"No."

"No?"

"No, I don't want to forget. I don't want to act like it never happened. You must have felt someth-"

"I did." He tilts his head while uttering those last words- one of the few mannerisms he can't seem to rid himself of- and watches her with kind eyes. "I do."

She could still blame this on a moment of irrational vulnerability. She could still make herself believe that this was a mistake. She could still get up from the couch. But the reason why she doesn't move, why she is playing along so willingly is really quite simple. She wants him, too.

And they could destroy each other so easily and hurt each other so badly. Irrevocably, perhaps.

But no one has ever looked at her like this before and it's like a drug. Reckless intoxication.

"I need to clarify something." It's the final barrier between them, for now, and she needs him to understand. "I don't love Tom anymore."

"You don't have to justify your choices, Lizzie."

"I know. But I just wanted to be clear about this. I don't love him anymore." Determined, resolute. Like he has come to know her. He raises an eyebrow, a wistful smile playing out on his lips.

"Duly noted."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, analyzing the implications of each other's admissions, and finally Red reaches for his glass and takes another sip. The tension dissipates, slowly but surely. He feels certain. Confident.

He wants to breathe her in and run his fingers along her skin and he hesitates, still. Even now. Especially now. Because there is no need to rush this. Because he can take his time.

And so his thumb grazes the side of her neck and she can't help the shiver running down her spine.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Red?" A game, always a game. She savors the amused expression on his face. She can still catch him off- guard.

"Aren't you presumptuous?"

His thumb drawing a line down her arm.

"I could teach you a thing or two."

Tracing the lines of her palm.

"Oh Lizzie, of that I have no doubt. But seduction is an art form"- he withdraws his hand- "and one I excel in."

_There's no one on earth who can make a woman feel like the center of his universe more than Raymond Reddington._

"Then prove it."


	5. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

He has imagined this. Many times, in fact. Hearing those words. Feeling her skin. Feeling  _her_. And now she's demanding action. Now she's daring him to continue. Then why in the world isn't he moving?

He leans back and her pupils are dilated, unapologetically expectant, and he thinks he can't do this. He can't act upon an impulse, upon the whiskey in his veins and the strangeness of the night, and disregard the consequences. He has to know better than that. He has to be better than that.

_That's what love is. Being powerless._

Because he loves her he retreats.

Something's changed in these last few seconds, she notices, something in his expression has faltered. It seems impossible to pinpoint, really, and it doesn't make sense. It simply doesn't make sense that he turns away from her in this very instant and that his mask is back in place and  _what did she miss? What did she do wrong?_ She's made her choice and her choice was him and she's made it unmistakably clear, too. And she doesn't understand. She doesn't understand but she suspects. And the disappointment that comes with her realization is painful, is ugly, and she can't believe he would hurt her like this.

"I'm sorry Lizzie. This was a mistake," she hears him say and it's so disgustingly cliché and the eyes that watch her intently are devoid of the warmth that had assured her moments earlier. The kindness that had convinced her that she was doing the right thing. That both of them wanted this.

"A mistake?" Sheer disbelief, and not much else. She can barely focus, torn between an evolving rage and unrestrained sadness. Hadn't he spoken of honesty earlier? Hadn't she?

He regards her skeptically and he wants to explain. He wants her to stay. "You don't have to leave," he proposes and she shakes her head.

"I can't believe this." She rises from the couch in a swift motion, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "I need to get out of here. I need to get away from…From whatever the hell just happened." Her voice is trembling but she's breathing steadily. She won't break down in front of him, not again, not after all of this.

"Lizzie, wait. Please." It's a novelty, this simple plea, but it's too late. She grabs her coat and storms out of the room, down the hall, his footsteps right behind her, and before she can reach for the handle his hand is pressed against the door. She's trapped.

"Lizzie, I need you to listen."

She turns because it's her only option. But she can hurt him, too. And her words, her sharp and angry words, cut deep into his flesh.

"And Raymond Reddington always gets what he wants, doesn't he?" There's venom in her voice and the poison spreads right through him. „You know what Red? I am done. I am tired of your games, of your constant deflection. You tell me how important I am to you, how much I matter and then, without explanation, you change your mind. You know, for once I thought we were on the same page. That we wanted the same thing, that we actually  _felt_ the same thing. Seems I was wrong, again. But I won't let you do this to me. I won't let you lure me in, make me feel special, and then leave."

"If you would hear me out I could-" He tries to make her listen but she pushes against him,  _how fucking dare you_ , shoves him almost, and he grabs her wrists and holds them in place. He doesn't apply pressure; he doesn't have to. She's too exhausted to fight him. The desperate sigh leaving her lips pains him and he lets go and she lowers her head in resignation. This is all the attention he can expect.

"I need you to understand something. I want you. I want you with such intensity that I have to fight the constant urge to touch you, to keep you close to me. Every word I said earlier remains true. My feelings for you...But my rationality is failing me and I can't let that happen. I can't put you at risk. If my actions hurt you, I am deeply sorry. That was never my intention."

She looks up at him then, takes in his expression, and is speechless.

This isn't the Raymond Reddington she knows. This isn't the wanted criminal. This is someone she has merely caught glimpses of. This is the man who had softly stroked her hair while she was seated in a wheelchair. The man who had offered her a sad smile before a code had been entered. The man who had told her that everything was going to be okay.

She had believed him back then. And she can't help but believe him now. She's looking at the very essence of him.

"I can't lose you, Lizzie. You're the one thing I can't lose."

He means it. He really means it. And she stares back at him and thinks of that day in the park-  _n_ _one of it is worse than losing you_ \- and he's not kneeling this time but it doesn't matter. He's surrendering all the same.

His touch is long gone but she feels his pulse, still, feels it pump through her. His heartbeat that seems to echo off the walls.

He watches her. Is sure she will turn around any second now. Will leave him there. But she doesn't move. Just speaks calmly.

"Earlier you told me it was my choice. What would happen now."

"I did," he responds quickly, surprised by the confidence in her voice, and suddenly her hand is ghosting along his cheek.

"I choose this."

And she steps forward.


	6. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

Lizzie.  _Lizzie._

It's a warning without vigor, a meaningless appeal. It's a yearning sigh instead of an insistent demand, a wistful breath of air that escapes him as her hand finds the back of his neck. As she pulls him closer until they're a mere inch apart. He doesn't have a chance.

They're standing in the middle of the hallway in the middle of the night and their gazes cling and he sees the desire there, the need, and he forgets about his inhibitions and his better judgment and the  _scars on his back_  and waits for her to finish what she has started. Unconsciously and almost imperceptibly he nods.

She kisses him. Seconds of hope.

He doesn't react, doesn't reciprocate. But she knows. And he'll understand.

So she leans in once again, her lips near his ear, his body paralyzed by anticipation, and she whispers.  _Let go._

His response is immediate. Impulsive. There's a shift that occurs right in front of her, a shift she had prepared for because it mirrors her very own. These innocent phrases that dismantle all boundaries. The power she has over him.

It happens quickly.

He moves forward and presses his lips against hers with a determination that threatens to submerge her, a passion that leaves her breathless, and she doesn't mind when she feels the door against her back, quite the opposite really, it steadies her as she tries to hold on to him, as she pushes the vest of his shoulders and fumbles with the buttons of his dress shirt and she thinks she needs to remember every detail of this exact instant, the way this feels, the way he tastes. His hands cup her face and for a few seconds he pulls back, regards her, and she can't believe he's letting her witness the plethora of emotions ghosting along his features right now. He looks at her as if she might vanish from beneath his fingertips at any moment. He looks at her as if she is the only person in the world that could save him. He looks at her with silent apologies in his eyes.

Choices. Their relationship has always been about choices. And with his body pressed against hers she knows, undoubtedly, she's made the right one.

There's something that distinguishes his touch from every other she has experienced before. Every contact equals some intimate ignition, some seductive confession. He was right, she realizes. He excels in this. And she lets him.

There are other things she notices. The soft sound he makes when her nails brush against the back of his head. The way he lifts his chin when she kisses the scar on his neck. How he takes his time, how he savors.

But it's one detection in particular, one minuscule movement, that astonishes her. That makes her hesitate. The way he flinches when her hands wander underneath his shirt and graze the skin on his shoulder. The way he suddenly and completely stops.

He's panting, and so is she, and  _he can't possibly have second thoughts about this again, can he? He wouldn't dare._

But something is most certainly wrong.

He takes a step back, pulls at his shirt, tries to hold on to the last piece of his armor, his crucial secret, while she watches him questioningly, still leaning against the door, still trying to suppress the shivers running down her spine. Waiting for an answer.

"Lizzie, there's something you should know."

Countless revelations in a matter of minutes, all- encompassing, overwhelming. He owes her this, tonight of all nights, because things are different now. Because she's made a decision.

He explains it in very basic terms. A fire, a girl, a young man. He gives no details, that will come later, that will come when the time is right and she is ready to listen.

Now all he can hope for is that she will stay. Despite of his admission. Or because of it.

_If you are in need, I will be there._

She wonders what she is supposed to feel, if there was some kind of protocol for a situation like this. She should be angry at him for keeping this from her all this time, she should be disappointed and furious and…And she feels nothing. The truth is that somewhere in the back of her mind she had expected this. Somehow she had known all along.  _I'm not gonna let anything happen to you._  He never has. He never will.

"Turn around." A simple request that seems like a strenuous task. But her voice leaves no room for interpretation and so he does.

He can feel her presence right behind him as she moves forward, her breath that tickles the fabric and his skin underneath. A faint puff of air as her hand glides along his back. An intoxicating mixture of relief and shock when his shirt is cautiously pulled off his shoulders, scarred tissue exposed to the warmth of her lips. The sweet sensation of forgiveness.

He closes his eyes and almost stops breathing, too focused now on her curious fingertips, the way they trace the patterns, the callous wounds. The fateful, familiar burns.

It's an action of reassurance. Of comfort. For the both of them.

He turns around then, takes her hand in his, kisses her palm softly.  _Thank you_ , he says. She simply nods and leads him away.

In the peaceful quiet of the night a bedroom door closes.


	7. Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

She has never seen him this, well, unguarded. This vulnerable. Yet there he stands, right in front of her, a thousand revelations surfacing in the depth of his dilated pupils, his shirt unbuttoned, his vulnerabilities uncovered.

Somewhat half-heartedly she glances around the room, sees the elegant velvet curtains hanging heavily off the wooden rod, the lamp on the nightstand, the kingsize bed and its plainly striped duvet, silky sheets and thread counts, yes, there is wealth displayed here, no doubt, and still it all seems arbitrary and secondary given the situation,  _their_  situation. It's quite simple, really. Compared to the bond they retain, the history they share, it all amounts to nothing.

It's late or rather early to be exact, but it doesn't matter. Minutes are just variables without value, mere constructs that don't affect them. Tonight they exist without rules, without  _lines in the sand_ , somewhere between sorrow and scars. They have earned this.

The sight in front of her is something she is still unfamiliar with. The criminal robbed of his protective attire, his armor. She forgets sometimes that beneath the crisp shirts and the expensive suits his heart beats like any other. Bullets don't go past him. Neither do flames. But he survives, constantly, stubbornly, just like her. They fight. They subsist.

Yes, there are wounds there, countless reminders of bleak mortality. From unresolved battles and confidential wars. The stories he could tell. Maybe she'll hear them one day. Maybe he'll share his former life with her. She still knows so little about him and the empires he governs and the dues he pays and the fortunes he controls. About the person hidden behind the Raymond Reddington persona. The object of an FBI file.

She's getting ahead of herself but all these thoughts and ideas and presumptions are rushing through her mind and he still _just stands there_ , afraid to startle her perhaps, afraid to hope or expect, even though her intentions have been so clear and even though he himself had spoken of seduction. He should be certain by now that she wants this as much as him, that they're on the same page and that consequences may be discussed later but are of no importance right now and that's maybe the greatest luxury they can currently grant themselves. Still, he hasn't said a word. Still, he hasn't touched her.

They could play this game forever, move the pieces on an imaginary chessboard back and forth, declare a winner, checkmate. But they're past playing games. No, this is real and much more intricate. And there's a hand reaching out for him, holding on to the nape of his neck and his wrinkled collar, and a voice whispering his name so softly that his eyes close on their own account.  _Red._

She kisses him. She kisses him passionately, confidently, without fear of rejection because she knows he won't falter. Not this time.

A sigh escapes him.

He's awake suddenly, he's fully present now and he breaks the contact only to get a better look at her-  _we can't turn back from this_ \- and she smiles-  _I don't want to_ \- and it's settled then and he leans in.

It's many things at once. Hands pulling at fabric, lips craving skin, inaudible declarations. He whispers against her neck and she shivers. There's an intensity that leaves them breathless; an ardency they savor. There's the slight dip of the mattress when he lowers her onto the bed, a symbiosis of lace and linen and silk, and the way he pauses just for a moment, traces of wonder and disbelief ghosting along his features. The way she touches his face and the way he seems to melt beneath her fingertips, quite rapidly, quite irreversibly so. This abundance of intimacies, these smallest of gestures. A twist of fate.

She could tear him apart in the blink of an eye and now he is memorizing her reactions, every little movement, the faint blush blooming on her cheeks, the scent of her hair. He's learning quickly. Studying sounds and complexions and shades and the particular way she breathes his name. Without regrets.

It doesn't make sense. Any of it. This night, this ongoing paradox with its sobering honesty and unpredictable twists. The distance between them when he had set foot on the ship and initiated a confrontation, and the sudden realization that she could be just as reckless as him, as ruthless even, ultimately trapping herself and her morals in the midst of those steel walls. Seeking closure. He could never blame her for trying.

There's great strength in vulnerability, in the willingness to be comforted, to admit defeat. He has been there, he has lived through it numerous times until he could no longer afford it. It's a fine line between trust and suspicion. It might be their most arduous struggle. And yet he can't help but marvel at her patience and persistence and her strength. Second chances are granted so rarely.

He can never be sure what the world will look like in the morning. It's not the life he has chosen. He rarely sleeps, his mind scarcely at peace. He has committed atrocities that haunt him. That he won't ever forget. And yet here she is. Forgiving. Healing his scars. She is offering him redemption, that unattainable gift.

_You're the one thing I can't lose._

She was right. This time he won't falter or retreat.

He will cherish.


End file.
